


Be Serious

by Dumbtard (sophiethung)



Series: Will You Permit It? [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Heavy Angst, Hurt Enjolras, Hurt Grantaire, Multi, Please Don't Hate Me, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-10-11 13:22:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10465995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiethung/pseuds/Dumbtard
Summary: It's been a year since Grantaire was taken. Enjolras finds himself torn between fighting for his people and looking for Grantaire. Joly struggles to take care of Enjolras while keeping himself together - having lost his best friend. Bossuet blames himself for Musichetta and Éponine can't find the pity for Marius while she lost her two friends. Courfeyrac loses himself in trying to keep the others from falling apart while Combeferre does the same thing in his research. Gavroche has become the protector to a girl without help and Valjean falls ill.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment.  
> And it's okay, I hate me too :)  
> Read the first book first!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luv you... he he i luv 2 die

Enjolras blinked against the bright light streaming into the room. He stretched and sat up, yawning loudly. He looked around the well known yet unfamiliar room and sighed.

He contemplated staying in bed today, feeling the weight of his sheets keeping him anchored there. Because what was the point of getting out of his bed into a world that beat him to the ground at every chance it got. 

But he'd already sat up, so might as well go the whole way. There was no point to staying in bed either, and his friends needed him to stay on his feet. 

He swung his legs from the bed and walked towards one of the stacks of paintings. He picked up a particularly wide one and walked back to the bed in the corner. 

This one was his favorite. The canvas was wide and flat, and on it was a painting of one of the meetings. It showed the room from Grantaire's little corner of the room. The two large tables in the middle of the room with the chairs scattered around it. The couches on the far walls of the room and the coffee table between them. The soft candle light shining playfully over ten happy faces and throwing strange shadows over the uneven walls. 

Enjolras remembered the night well. The electricity had been out for almost two days, and the winter storms prevented anybody from going home. So they'd stayed at the Musain, huddled up together and sharing embarrassing stories about each other. There'd been games, like spin the bottle and beer pong, and there'd been laughter. It was before Grantaire and Enjolras had gotten together, but Grantaire had flirted shamelessly anyway. Enjolras only caught that looking back, as he'd been completely oblivious at the time.  

This painting was so much lighter than the others. It was still dark, but there was a certain warmth to it that Grantaire didn't often create. It was a happy painting. 

Enjolras traced his fingers over the many paint strokes swirling over one another and stopping shortly after they were born. Enjolras now understood why Jehan always wanted to be with Grantaire when he painted. There was emotion in the ghost of Grantaire's hand that could not be described by rational words. 

Enjolras clenched his jaw and set the painting aside. These paintings were a thing of the past; they weren't going to be painted anymore, thought Enjolras bitterly. 

 _No! He's alive,_ he corrected himself. But at what cost?

He sighed, grabbed a clean set of clothes and made his way to the shower. He stripped out of his boxers and turned on the water, not waiting for it to get warm to step in. He shivered before getting used to the cold trickling down his spine, but then he relaxed and let himself feel the water slowly turn warmer. 

He'd been sleeping in Grantaire's apartment from time to time. Joly gave him the spare keys a couple of weeks after Grantaire disappeared, telling him Enjolras had to see the paintings anyway. 

In the two months him and Grantaire had been together, he never even saw one painting. Now he'd memorized all of them.

There were so many of them, all impressionist. Some were of Joly, some of Courf, some the rest of the amis, but most of them were of Enjolras, locked in a heated debate or fidgeting with his pen. There was always this golden glow around his head, like a saint. Or a god. 

That was the way Grantaire saw him. 

But those paintings always made him sad. Enjolras saw the darkness outside that halo. He knew Grantaire thought he lived in a bubble. He knew Grantaire thought the world outside that bubble was cruel and dark. Enjolras didn't know how to make him see sense.  

Enjolras didn't how to do a lot of things anymore. 

He used to be able to lead everyone in the group, keep them focused on the cause. But in those first few months - where he'd been frantically looking for a way to get Grantaire back - he'd lost that too. He let everyone lose themselves in their own grief and guilt.

Bossuet had almost left Joly. He was convinced he'd been the cause of Joly's pain. He said if he hadn't introduced Joly to Musichetta, if he hadn't been such  _bad luck_ , maybe one less person would be hurting. Courfeyrac and Joly had managed to prevent that from happening, Joly forcefully telling Bossuet he was with Musichetta solely to be able to be with Bossuet, and Courfeyrac saying that Joly would still be hurting, because his best friend was gone.

But they all knew it wasn't quite true. Joly had fancied Musichetta quite a lot. Never as much as he loved Bossuet, but still enough to make her betrayal hurt. So. Much. That on top of Grantaire's capture with Joly being the only medic of  _les Amis_ had taken quite a toll on him. 

Joly tried his best to take care of the others, keeping them from falling into a grief-induced depression. But he'd almost caused one in himself in doing so. He convinced himself he was dying of Pneumonia and Alzheimer's both at once ("Joly, you are twenty-three. You are _not_ dying of Alzheimer's").

Enjolras had noticed Éponine trying to keep Marius on his feet. He'd been absolutely heart-broken by Cosette's betrayal. Enjolras had realized too late that Cosette and Marius had gotten together fairly easily. Marius had seen Cosette helping the poor with her father, pining after her for about a month before talking to her once. They got together after that one meeting. 

Marius had been head over heels for that girl, ready to leave all his friends in the middle of the meetings just to be with her. He wasn't bothered by Grantaire and Joly's teasing and jokes about his love for her, mostly because they were usually true. 

And now he was just a shadow in the corner of the room, drinking to forget. That is, until Éponine shook him out of his self-pity. She reminded him there were still people in the room who loved him, who would have him despite his flaws and his mistakes. 

Marius still didn't seem to know one of those people was Éponine. He still thought she was being this way because she was his best friend. 

Enjolras knew better. Éponine was wasting herself away to find pity for the man she loved. Éponine lost both of her only friends. She never really fit in with the rest of the group, despite having plenty of reasons to be in the group. Éponine didn't pity Marius, but she loved him.

Combeferre was losing himself in his research. He was trying to find ways to get into Versailles again to get Grantaire back, while also losing himself in the research to help the cause. Enjolras figured it was his way of coping. 

Gavroche took care of Renae, or Rey as they called her. It wasn't safe for her to stay in any old warehouse, so Enjolras let them sleep in his apartment, together with Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac's apartment was compromised, seeing as he had taken Montparnasse there after Grantaire and Enjolras had gotten together. 

Courf said he was fine, and for a while Enjolras believed it. He was keeping everyone from breaking down or start fighting everyone. He kept everyone together. He got Jehan to write poetry again, who had stopped after losing the source of his inspiration. Courf was cheery and happy when nobody else could be. 

Enjolras knew Courf was dying inside. He smiled so much more, but never laughed. He flirted with everyone, but never took anyone home. He felt guilty about Grantaire, somehow, and was desperately trying to redeem himself. 

The Musain was compromised as well. Musichetta worked here, but nobody had the heart to leave it behind. Gavroche had his boys on the look-out every time they had a meeting, but it soon became clear nobody was coming for them. Courfeyrac still hadn't moved back to his apartment. He said he couldn't, that it reminded him too much of Grantaire. 

Enjolras didn't mind. 

He sighed and turned off the now-warm water and grabbed a towel hanging from the rack. He dried himself off and tugged on his clothes before grabbing an apple and leaving the apartment. He decided it was time to go back to his own apartment. He was afraid to start smelling like Grantaire, because if that happened he wouldn't be able to smell Grantaire when he came here. 

He made his way to his apartment in little over half an hours. He wandered, not really wanting to go back.

When he finally made it there he saw that Courfeyrac had thrown all the windows open, something he never really did. He got cold too easily. Besides, it was winter, so why would he. 

He slowly made his way up the stairs, bitterly regretting his decision to take the top apartment. He was slightly out of breath by the time he got to his door. He gave his only key to Courfeyrac, so he rang the doorbell and waited. 

A surprised Courf opened the door, hair messier than usual, standing on ends, and rubbing sleep out of his eyes. 

"Bloody hell, Enj." His peculiar little accent was more noticeable now that he was tired. "It's eight A.M." Right. The others didn't rise as early as he did.

"Sorry," shrugged Enjolras apologetically. He really hadn't thought about it. 

"Issokay," mumbled Courf.

He stepped aside to let Enjolras through. Enjolras looked around to see if anything had changed, but Courf was about as tidy as he was. There were some empty plates on the table, but Enjolras suspected that was Gavroche and Rey leaving them before Courf had woken up. 

Those two didn't go farther than 30 meters from each other nowadays. 

"How the fuck does you hair stay so bloody perfect?" growled Courf, tugging at one of Enjolras' curls. "Nevermind, go shower."

"I showered this morning."

"No, you haven't. Not using any soap doesn't count after more than three days, and it's been weeks." Courf was right, of course. 

"Fine," sighed Enjolras. 

* * *

Enjolras stepped out of the shower feeling more refreshed than he'd felt in a year. He'd missed his soap, his shampoo. 

He quickly dried himself before slipping into a maroon hoodie and jeans. The sound of a door slamming followed by chatter announced Gavroche and Rey's arrival, welcomed by Courfeyrac. 

Enjolras ran the towel over his hair one last time before stepping out of the bathroom. 

He'd expected to find three smiling faces, but found one horrified, one terrified and a somber one. To find Gavroche somber was a rare thing, and it worried Enjolras. Gavroche carefree, worry free. To find a child silent and sad was a terrible, his mother used to say. Don't think about her now. 

As soon as she spotted Enjolras, Rey ran towards him. He kneeled down to catch her when she threw her arms around his neck. Enjolras held onto her, calming her. He looked at Courfeyrac, who had his hand on Gavroche's shoulder.

"They've set one of the warehouses on fire." Enjolras didn't need to ask who 'they' were; Tholomyès' people were the only ones who would do this, aside from Patron-Minette. This wasn't new. "With eight of the kids still inside." 

Enjolras' stomach dropped. Eight kids dead. 

"We were there this mornin'," said Gavroche quietly. 

Shit. Someone must've seen Rey and alerted Tholomyès. Not many people knew about Rey, so it must've been someone from his inner circle. 

At that moment both Courf and Enjolras' phones went off. Enjolras fished his out of his pocket with the arm that wasn't holding Rey to his hip, and saw a new message.

_From: Bahorel_

_EMERGENCY MEETING. NOW!!!!_

A pang of worry shit through shit through Enjolras again, and he wondered what this could be about. Maybe they found Grantaire's body lying in a ditch somewhere. Enjolras had forgotten what his voice sounded like. 

He was aware of Courfeyrac looking at him like he was going to break down. He just felt agitated at the concern radiating off of his friend. 

He grunted as he picked up Rey again, who'd slid to the floor, and shook his head to Courfeyrac, letting him know he was fine. Before he opened the door he wrapped his usual jacket around Rey, who couldn't be seen and who was only the dress from her uniform to protect her from the cold. Courf gave Gavroche his own jacket in turn, and ordered him to stay close. 

As soon as they made it down the stairs and out of the building, they were his with a face full of snow and biting cold. It rarely stormed like this in Paris, and Enjolras pulled the collar on Rey's jacket and tugged up in own hood. Rey buried her face in the hood, against his ear. He saw Courfeyrac lifting Gavroche up to his own hip, as Gavroche had trouble plowing through the snow. 

"The undergound's gonna be full of people!" shouted Enjolras over the wind. "We can't risk it!"

Courfeyrac gave him a murderous look, but he seemed to understand. 

After what seemed like an hour of wrestling through the snow, sometimes sinking to their waists, the four of them finally reached the Musain. The door was covered in snow, and it was the only entrance except for the back, which was also snowed in. 

"Oi!" shouted someone from above. It was Bahorel, hanging out of the window. He threw a rope down, holding onto one end, and waited until Enjolras had secured Rey in the rope before pulling her down. Gavroche climbed up himself, while Enjolras needed the rope to help them. 

Enjolras clambered over the railing, aided by Bahorel, before shaking the snow off his clothes. His socks were soaked and his fingers were numb. He was shaking all over when he pulled off his shoes and socks, letting his feet warm up in the thick air. 

The room was awfully quiet, with nobody really talking above a whisper. 

He looked around and saw Rey and Gavroche huddled near the candles, and being given blankets by Joly. Combeferre was poured over a map, a concentrated frown on his face, with his glasses askew, as he marked certain spots with a red pen. 

Joly was taking great care to stay as far away from Enjolras as possible, who was admittedly slightly sick, accompanied by Bossuet. 

Courfeyrac walked to Éponine and Marius. Courf had been trying to coax Éponine away from Marius, not long after after Grantaire disappeared. Enjolras always thought what she felt for Marius was a simple crush, but he soon had seen it ran so much deeper than he could ever understand. Éponine had always been this stoic and steely girl, but when she was near Marius, she would become giddy and excitable. Enjolras never liked that kind of sort of double personality. 

Marius looked very different from a year ago. His usually neatly swept to the side waves were hanging over over his eyes. His eyebrows were still so far up, so he still looked permanently surprised, but there was a sadness behind his eyes, accompanied by dark bags under them.

Feuilly was staring at Bahorel's back, while Bahorel was talking to Jehan. 

"What's going on?" asked Enjolras loudly, motioning to the dark faces in the room. 

"They've started killing the other groups," said Bahorel softly. Enjolras stilled. His heart quickened in his chest, and he forced himself to calm down and assess the situation. If the authorities were killing other revolutionaries that meant that Les Amis could be next. After all, they were the most organized group of them all, and were most effectively active.

Bahorel explained when Enjolras looked at him questioningly. "Two whole groups have been killed in their homes by what we think is a single assassin; Montparnasse, maybe. The remaining groups have gone into hiding in these areas." He gestured to Combeferre and his map. "I don't know about us, what we should be doing."

"Were they alone when they were attacked?" asked Combeferre. 

"Alone or with one other person," said Bahorel, frowning slightly.

"You're right, it's probably only one perpetrator. We should get into groups of four or three, like a buddy system," Combeferre said without looking up from his map.

"Listen, everybody!" announced Enjolras. "I want Jehan, Bossuet and Feuilly together." Jehan had been forced to drop out of his classes due to his father's promotion, seeing as English majors didn't fit with a CEO of a government-funded organization. He said he didn't mind, that he could only learn so much about sonnets, the only approved form of poetry, anyway, but as he was now twenty and not a student, he'd been assigned to the mines. Enjolras could see the hard days word in the way Jehan's muscles were starting to bulk through his shirt.

The three of them: Bossuet, Jehan and Feuilly wouldn't have to go far from each other to go to work.

"Marius and Éponine are with Joly and Bahorel." Two fighters with two somewhat emotionally unstable men.

"That leaves me with Courfeyrac, Combeferre and the kids." Enjolras needed his second and third in command for this one.

"You're not to go anywhere without at least two others. We think the assassin is alone, but skilled, so beware. Anybody want to add to that?" Enjolras tried his best to sound like a true commander, and telling by the reassured faces in the room it worked.

"I can hide a lo' of me people in the gutters, bu' not all of 'em," Gavroche said. Enjolras nodded.

"What do you need?"

"Every group take two boys or girls." There was agreement throughout the room, so Enjolras suspected they already knew about the warehouses.

"Alright," he said when nobody has anything else to offer. "Everybody is going to a house where Cosette, Montparnasse or Musichetta have never been. We'll keep the meeting at a minimum, too, to avoid detection."

He dismissed everyone with a curt nod, sending them into an almost frantic flurry for the window. The storm had quieted, leaving a thick pack of white fluff outside.

Enjolras groaned at the aspect of cold seeping through his socks and pants, but he took the rope anyway. Everybody seemed anxious to leave the Musain, and Enjolras couldn't blame them.

On the way home he thought of sleeping arrangements. Courfeyrac would have to take the guest room, while Courfeyrac and Rey would take Enjolras' bed. Gavroche prefered sleeping on the floor so he could sleep next to the bed. I'll have to sleep on the couch then, thought Enjolras bitterly.

This was going to be fun.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too much?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he he

Grantaire stared at his naked reflection, trembling slightly at the sight. His gaze travelled from his hollow cheeks to his now-muscled form. He'd never been the biggest of Les Amis, leaving that to Bahorel. Jehan had, in fact, been the only one skinnier than him, with even Joly needing strength for his work. But now muscles were rippled beneath his skin, layer upon layer revealing something that could only be achieved through what this past year had been.

His body wasn't anything like Apollo's or Courfeyrac's, whose bodies were beautifully sculpted, but more like Feuilly's and Bossuet's, who had gained muscles against their own will. Forced to work in the mines took its toll on a body if it didn't strengthen itself first. 

Grantaire felt his heart hammering against his ribs as he looked at the scars and the cuts and the bruises.

He'd found it only takes one minute, an insignificant amount of time, to ruin one man's life. 

He used to dream of his friends coming to rescue him, in those early days, storming through this camp, guns blazing, dragging him away. 

He saw his apartment; the small living room with the couch and armchair crowded inside, and attached to it the cramped kitchen that only ever held ramen noodles; and his bedroom, where he'd painted and slept on that large bed pushed against the wall, where he'd taken someone new every night, until-

Grantaire cut himself off there, feeling too small to continue. His breath came too quickly and his heart felt like it was going to break through his chest. He felt tempted to slide down to the floor and curl in on himself, but he focused on something else instead. 

He looked at the walls which were the same light and dull grey as the rest of the building, along with the glaring light from the ceiling and the floor. The smell of chlorine and other disinfectants he couldn't identify filled his nostrils. 

Grantaire had to go to medbay every month, so the examination table surrounded by multiple lights and beeping machines wasn't anything new to him. The doctor wasn't here yet, so he had to wait in the cold to be examined and treated for for his injuries - just to be able to take more tomorrow. 

Don't think about that, either, he told himself. He turned back to the mirror, and ran his hand through his hair. Though it still curled at the nape of his neck, it felt too short. The hair on top of his head used to be slightly longer than the rest, but it had been cut to meet camp regulation. 

Grantaire chuckled to himself. A year in hell and here he was mourning his hair. And his stubble, which had been shaved off per regulation as well, but it could be grown back easily. 

But when? 

Grantaire stopped his fantasy before it even began. How was he going to get out all by himself anyway?

He whirled around when the door behind him opened, revealing a short blond woman smiling happily at him. Her round glasses magnified her eyes, giving her a permanently surprised look that reminded him of a friend long lost. 

"Number 24601!" she chirped. That's all he was now, a number. "Let's get you on this table, hmm?" 

Grantaire moved to the bed, not really caring for modesty. He pretended not to notice the doctor looking at his crotch. 'Studying any marks or bruises', she would've said. 

He flopped down and waited for the mask. The doctor clasped it over his nose and mouth, still smiling brightly. It was unsettling. 

Grantaire groaned as the room started to sway and fade. He started to panic as the dark came crashing in, the machine next to him beeping madly. His breathing shallowed, and he felt a hand on his arm. The doctor said something, but Grantaire couldn't tell what it was.

* * *

He woke on the same bed, in a different room. Grey walls, white floor, too-bright lights, but no beeping. 

"24601, you are to go directly to combat training. You treatment lasted three hours, forty-six minutes and three seconds," the generic interface sounded from the walls. "Your rehabilitation session has been cancelled for today."

Grantaire exhaled with relief, his body sagging on the table. He knew rehabilitation would be cancelled, but part of him feared that cruelty of little joys taken away. 

"Please put on your uniform and make your way to your next session."

His head swam as he sat up, and he felt like he was going to throw up. His limbs felt too heavy and his knees almost buckled when he tried to stand up. He steadied himself with one hand on the wall, and took a step forward, legs shaking. He groaned when the room gave a violent swerve. 

He managed to make his way to the pile of clothes ready in the chute on the opposite wall. His head still ached, but the room stopped swaying and his legs were steadier now. 

He tugged on the dark cargo pants and black shirt, grabbing the jacket to put on when it got colder. It wasn't going to be much use to him in combat anyway. 

He pressed his palm to the scanner on the wall, and stepped back as the door swung open. 

He made his way through the maze of grey tunnels, knowing exactly when to turn and when to keep going. He arrived in front a set of heavy steel doors, with an old label just above it. 'Gymnasium', it said, like it was some kind of recreational activity. 

Grantaire sighed as he scanned his palm and pushed open the door. He really didn't want to be here.

Most of his headache was gone, but he still felt a little bit uneasy. He looked around to see who else was going to be in his group today. 

His eyes scanned the arena, passing over the elevated stands where trainers watched, and over the racks of weapons placed in rows against the walls. To his left, a group was working a stimulation for running on rooftops, with the artificial blue matter as their ground. To his right, another group was sparring on uneven surfaces and non-solid substances. 

In front of him was the shooting range, a long strip down the middle of the arena with moveable puppets on the far end. Grantaire made his way over to it. 

A loud alarm sounding overhead told him another session was starting in five minutes, meaning he was just in time for his. He joined six other prisoners listening to their instructor, who was listing their tasks for today. 

Grantaire looked at his group. There were three girls, and three boys, all tough but scared looking. One girl with a form that almost rivalled Bahorel's was nervously fidgeting with the long black braid that was slung over her shoulder. Another boy was obsessively tying the shoelaces on his prisoner-issue boots. Grantaire was surprised those two made it so far, but he knew they weren't going to last much longer. 

They were trained here for combat, though Grantaire wouldn't know why. The training made you stronger, harder to beat down, but so many broke after a while. That was the purpose of rehabilitation: to weed out the weak ones. 

Another girl that stood out to him was a particularly mean-looking one. Her blond hair flowed in tight little braids on the sides of her head, and in one loose braid in the middle. She had piercing eyes that appeared almost black, and she had a massive gun slung over her shoulder. She seemed could take Grantaire down in less than a minute, and would based off of the scowl on her face. 

There was a boy next to Grantaire that seemed vaguely familiar. Grantaire thought Bahorel might've taken him to one of the open meetings of Les Amis once. 

Grantaire's thoughts were interrupted as the group dispersed to different lanes. He was supposed to do handguns today. Great. 

Grantaire walked to the isle with the handguns and took one from its holder. The steel felt cool against his palm, and its familiarity was oddly soothing. He unclipped it to see how many bullets he had. An unnecessary habit, seeing as it was always full. He reclipped it and joined the line to the range. He was second.

When it was his turn he stepped up to the shooting line and held the gun in front of him, switching the safety off. He cocked it, and aimed. He didn't stop to see if his bullet hit its mark after that first jerk of his hands before firing another one, and another. Soon the entire clip was empties and soon the dummy was riddled with twelve additional holes.

Eight of the bullets had hit the bullseye in either the head or the heart, which was less than to be expected. Grantaire could almost feel the disapproving glare of the trainer on him, but he didn't dare look. He had the excuse of just coming back from medical and not having eating anything in twenty-four hours, but they wouldn't want to hear it. 

He threw his empty clip in the box as he passed it on his way to the back of the line, and picked up a new one that comes out of the opposite end of it. 

* * *

 

Grantaire was soaking in sweat by the time the session was over. He had a few nasty bruises from where he'd been struck during sparring, or where he'd fallen during the parkour session. His muscles were sore and his headache had flared up again.

Blood soaked his shirt where some of his stitches were ripped open, and Grantaire flinched every time he moved.

He just barely managed to march along to the waiting room, where he avoided the chairs for as long as possible. He had to suppress a groan when he was forced to sit, pain shooting up his spine. He saw two familiar faces and knew it was time to get moving. 

The hundred others in the same room as him all stood up as the loud bell rang, and marched evenly to the door. Grantaire marched along the corridors again, through a gate labeled 'Dormitories', and through the massive hall. The hall always terrified Grantaire, as it seemed to go on forever, with its many doors lined up on each wall.

The two others and him stopped in front of door number 18.32 and got inside. 

Grantaire hated the dorms. It was a small room with three showers lined up against the right wall. On the left there were three closets built into the wall without a door, and stacked inside it the dark uniforms they wore everyday and a fresh pair of pajamas and swimmers. 

On the far end there were three small square doors stacked on top of each other, leading to the beds. They reminded Grantaire of a morgue. 

Grantaire stepped into his shower and stripped, pushing his clothes through a chute in the wall. Warm water wasn't permitted, so he gritted his teeth through the cold stream. He hissed as he turned his open wound to the water, needing the sweat to wash out. Blood flowed down his legs into the sink, but he was used to it. 

After he was finished he grabbed a towel from another chute and dried himself off, before wrapping it around his waist to grab his pajamas from the closet. 

He opened the top bunk before climbing into it, crawling on his hands and knees until his feet were inside. He balled up and reached behind him to close the door, a tricky manoeuvre as he couldn't turn around. He then flopped down on his bed, which was hard underneath him. He flipped onto his back and reached up to the light, switching it off without bothering to get under the covers.

* * *

He dreamed about the light again. The light that came in the rehabilitation sessions. He always did. It frightened him.

Grantaire was terrified of the light. In those hours in the darkness he could hold onto himself and shiver against the cold stone walls, sunken to the floor. 

The dark corners were safe. They made Grantaire weep and whimper and flinch at every sound - but they were safe. 

He used to to think the light was there to rescue him, to save him from the pain that came with these hours. The light had pretended to run away with him, pretended to love him. 

It had struck him down to the ground, breaking him in more ways than he'd thought possible. It had left him in ruins, clutching to himself and screaming. 

It had tied him up and left him to rot. 

It left him to sob in the dark. 

And it made him forget.

Forget about everything and do it all over again until he couldn't forget anymore. 

He wanted to forget, to enjoy those few minutes of joy before the infinite pain, but he couldn't.

Grantaire was terrified of the light. It had taken him so many times, tied him up and released him again.

The too-yellow hair, the golden halo around it, and the perfect face and strong arms.

Needles in his veins.

_Please, Apollo._

_No more._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ouch


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another dark one

Enjolras woke with a gasp, panic from his dreams resonating in his heartbeat. He blindly grasped the space next to him, fingers groping for a ghost that used to be. He let them drop over the edge of the couch when they found nothing but the edge of the coffee table. 

He sighed, wishing for the manieth time that year for the warm body, dark and messy curls and the adorably smug grin next to him. 

Enjolras rubbed his palms over his face and sighed again. He had goosebumps all over his arms, but it wasn't from the dream or the cold but a prickling feeling at the back of his neck. He knew that feeling had woken him. 

Then he heard it, a soft sniffling in the dark, coming the hall. Enjolras shot to his feet, and listened again. No, it came from his bedroom. 

He pulled on his shirt, which he'd taken off when his shirt and the thick blanket proved too hot even in the cold winter night. He snuck through the hall to his bedroom, careful not to step on the third plank on the right - it creaked horribly every time. 

Gavroche's nest was empty, but that was no surprise, as he often disappeared to take care of his mini-gang and other illegal business. Courfeyrac was sprawled on his stomach, taking up most of the bed but none of the blankets, which were bulked up on the slight strip away from Enjolras. 

He didn't bother stepping lightly now that he knew Gavroche was gone, because Courfeyrac slept through anything. The heap of blankets gave a soft whimper as it heard Enjolras' approach. 

"Rey?" whispered Enjolras. He stopped at the foot of the bed, not wanting to scare her. She whimpered softer still, and he took another step forward. 

Rey flinched when he touched the blanket, but stayed perfectly still when he pulled it away. Rey was shaking, curled up tightly in a ball. 

When Enjolras pulled away the rest of the blankets she moaned softly into her knees. He sat down by her feet and she scrambled into his lap. Horrible sobs tore from throat as she clutched onto his arms. 

"Hey," he said, "I'm here. Tell me." Rey just shook her head, but lifted her shirt instead of saying anything else. She turned her back to him and flinched as he gasped. 

All across her back were scars and infected gashes, shallow but long. Enjolras gently touched the edge of the worst-looking cut, which was swollen and red and oozing... something. She gasped, pulling away from his touch.

"Oh, Rey, why didn't you say anything?" The cuts seemed old, but Enjolras didn't see how she could've hidden them for a year and  _survived._

"I was scared," she said in a small voice. "Please don't hate me."

Enjolras looked at her dumbfounded. "I don't hate you," he reassured her, "but you've gotta let Combeferre look at this." 

She whimpered and shook her head. "He scares me. He's too tall." Enjolras suppressed a chuckle.

"Fine. Joly, then." When she still looked reluctant he added, "Nobody is going to hate you for this." Rey sobbed. 

Eventually she relented and Enjolras managed to wake Courf, who called Joly. 

Joly arrived alone, much to Courf's dismay, and went to work immediately. They'd cleared the table and put a table over it, on top of which Rey was told to lie down. 

Enjolras stayed by her side until Gavroche appeared, who forcibly pushed him out of the way.

"Why didn' you tell me?" Gavroche practically shouted. The distress was clearly drawn on his face, but it softened when Rey started sobbing again. "Shh, it's alrigh'. Got's to be tough, eh?"

Enjolras, in a meantime, motioned for Courf and Combeferre to join him on the couch. He cleared his pillow and blanket off. 

"Combeferre," he said, "why would she think I hated her for her wounds." 

Combeferre was quiet for some time before answering, staring at his hands. "If kept isolated from the world and social interaction, any normal person would be more gullible than normal. With children, that effect is increased exponentially. I think Tholomyès told her that those wounds were repulsive, that she should be ashamed of them. Now, Tholomyès and Cosette were the only ones Rey ever had contact with, so she wouldn't be able to distinguish lies from truth from him."

Enjolras nodded. Even though it was the most repulsive thing he'd ever heard, it made sense. 

"What about those cuts?" asked Courfeyrac. 

"I got a chance to look at them: she wouldn't have survived a year with those cuts. She would've gotten blood-poisoning by now." He sighed deeply before continuing. "They're not a year old."

"What do you mean," said Enjolras panickedly. "Someone's been doing this to her behind our backs?"

Combeferre looked at him with sad eyes, his voice trembling when he answered. "The angle of the cuts and the way they're shaped leads me to conclude they're self-inflicted."

Enjolras' heart stopped, and then started beating again. 

"What?" he managed to choke out. 

"I think they made her torture herself. Pain purges sin."

Enjolras abruptly stood up and walked to his room, unable to listen to any more. His hands flew into his hair, and he breathed heavily. Rage and sadness boiled in his veins. He paced the room furiously, wanting, not for the first time, to kill that bastard himself.

He settled for throwing the things off his desk with a roar. When that didn't feel like it was enough he took the lamp and threw it across the room, shattering bits of it everywhere. 

He smashed a jar against the table, filling his hand with glass and blood. The pain that shot through his hand felt good, and picking glass from his skin was a good distraction. Combeferre came stumbling in, and a knowing look settled over his face when he saw Enjolras' hands and the shattered glass on the floor. 

He waved to the bed, and turned around to get his supplies. Enjolras had time to calm himself down before Combeferre returned, refraining from pushing his hair out of his face with his hands. 

Combeferre came back with a pincet, cloth and some mustard-looking ointment. He carefully picked the pieces of glass out of Enjolras' hand, tutting whenever Enjolras hissed quietly. 

"Hurting yourself won't help her," he said. 

Enjolras scowled. "Letting that bastard live won't do any good either." 

Combeferre frowned. "We've got to focus on getting Grantaire back first."

Enjolras felt guilt wash over him; he'd almost forgotten. Almost. 

"We'll free Grantaire by killing Tholomyès," said Enjolras. 

Combeferre just shook his head. "And then? Enjolras, killing him now won't do anything. Cosette'll take over. I'd prefer to let him rot in hell for as long as he lives, but the people need to see him die. But not now. When they're ready. Which they're not."

Enjolras looked at Combeferre. 

"They've bee- ouch! They've been ready for twenty-six years!"

"No, they would've done something."

When Combeferre was done pulling the glass out of Enjolras' hand, he smeared the yellow ointment over the cuts. It stung, but Enjolras didn't make a sound. He then wrapped the cloth around his hand, securing it with a pin.

"Leave that on for the next five hours," Combeferre commanded. 

Enjolras nodded. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the next one is hella fluffy (so you know it's not Enjoltaire/Granjolras :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's smut so be warned.  
> edit: trigger warning on homophobia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hii!!! I'm so sorry, I've been really out of it and there's a whole bunch of stuff going on (mainly a dude, moving and angst)

"I told me dear old Javert to fak off today," said Gavroche matter-of-factly over dinner. Courfeyrac choked on his soup and dropped his spoon to the floor.

"What?!" yelped Combeferre while rubbing Courf's back. 

"He said justice wa' served abou' them Leroy's." 

The Leroys had been executed for a minor offense; hung publicly for sleeping on the streets. Courfeyrac knew the family. He'd seen the youngest son at university every once in a while. 

"Good on you," managed Courf before coughing again. 

"He didn't follow you, did he?" asked Enjolras. 

"Nah, I'm too quick," replied Gavroche with a hint of pride. That was certainly true. Gavroche could disappear faster than sex appeal after a terrible haircut.

Enjolras laughed. He picked up the plates and whistled at the kids to do the dishes. It was their turn and Courfeyrac was feeling lazy. 

"Hey, Courf?" asked Combeferre. He looked uncertain, which was unusual because Combeferre really didn't care what people thought. The guy spent his free time either studying how natural selection affected the moths in Paris or correcting any mistakes made in a dictionary. 

Courf gave a grunt to show he was listening. 

Combeferre nervously rapped his knuckles against the wooden table before answering. 

"My, uh- you see..."

"Spit it out, 'Ferre," said Courf, curiosity thrumming inside him now. 

"Myparentswanttoarrangeamarriageforme." 

"What?"

"My parents are trying to arrange a marriage between me and the Moreau girl," sighed Combeferre, calmer now. 

"Oh." 

It was all Courf could manage. Isabel Moreau was an incredibly beautiful girl from a respectable and wealthy family. Of course Combeferre's parents would want him to marry her. That's how rich families worked. 

"Yeah," said Combeferre awkwardly. "I'm really sorry, but I panicked and I just- I thought it was the best solution- but I see now-" he rambled.

"'Ferre, what did you do?" Dread crept into Courfeyrac's veins. Whenever Combeferre panicked and was uncertain like this, things couldn't be good. He was never uncertain. 

"I told them I was engaged... to you."

Oh.

OH.

Fuck.

Fuckidy shit fuck. 

Shit.

"And they've invited you to dinner."

Oh, no. Courf couldn't pretend to be Combeferre's boyfriend! Combeferre was way too observant not to notice how he really felt. 

Courf felt like he'd been shot. 

So, was he really so deep in the friendzone Combeferre would be willing to pretend to be Courf's boyfriend?

Fuck.

* * *

Combeferre explained everything before they left the house. Combeferre's parents found out about his bisexuality when he'd told his parents about having a girl over, while in eality having the brother of said girl in his bed and the girl with his late sister. Apperently it had been a late night, because his mother came to his bedroom  to call him down for breakfast, only to find him being spooned by the brother.

Courfeyrac couldn't help but feel a little jealous of the brother when he first heard the story, but then scolded himself for being such a hypocrite. The amount of times he'd been caught in bed with someone was substantial.

His parents obviously didn't agree with his sexuality, but they would never sell out their only son to Tholomyès. 

As they walked across the city, Courfeyrac could tell Combeferre was nervous. He was fidgeting with his jacket and cracking his knuckles. 

"You alright, 'Ferre?" asked Courfeyrac.  

"Eh..." Combeferre replied. "Just a little nervous, I guess." 

Before he realized what he was doing or where he lived, Courfeyrac took Combeferre's hand and squeezed it.

"I wish holding hands was something we could do in public," muttered Combeferre. 

Courfeyrac huffed and let go of Combeferre's hand. Of course he would fantasize about holding another man's hand while Courfeyrac was holding his.

They walked in silence all the way to the massive house. It looked just like Jehan's, a great white block with windows. Courfeyrac guessed the inside was lacking a personality just as much as the outside.

His heart hammered in his chest as they walked through the front lawn up to the door. The house was narrow and tall, just like all the other houses on the street.  Courf though they looked quite threatening.

Combeferre had barely rung the door bell and the door had already swung open to reveal a tall man. He frowned down upon Combeferre but stepped aside. Combeferre sighed and pulled Courfeyrac past the tall man. 

The first thing Courf noticed was the smell of bleach. The house smelled of it. Mixed in was the scent of stew and herbs. 

"Combeferre..." The man's voice was deep - threatening, almost. "That  _is_ what you go by these days, isn't it? I've heard you never use the name your mother gave to you." Combeferre was being mocked openly by this man, and Courfeyrac didn't like it. He stayed silent, however.

"Yes, father," said Combeferre plainly. His jaw was set and he was gripping Courfeyrac's hand tightly. Courfeyrac couldn't remember when they started holding hands gain,  but he didn't complain. 

"Have a seat, boy." A woman had appeared from what Courfeyrac assumed was the kitchen, as she was holding a steaming pan. 

Combeferre led Courfeyrac to the white dining room, and pulled out one of the plain white chairs for him to sit on. He shifted uncomfortably,  noticing the cold and static tension in the room.

"So this is your fiancé?" asked Mrs. Combeferre after everyone had been seated. She eyed Courfeyrac up an down, eyebrow raised slightly. She was obviously not impressed.

"Mother, father, I would like you to meet Courfeyrac." Combeferre said loudly. He seemed happy, proud even. 

"Not Julien Courfeyrac's son?" asked Mr Combeferre.

"Yes, sir," answered Courfeyrac lightly. His parents weren't as rich as Combeferre's parents, being one of the few middle class families in all of France. 

"Hmm. And this is who you deemed more suited for you than Isabel Moreau?" Mrs. Combeferre's gaze shifted to Combeferre when she asked her question.

"I don't love Isabel." Combeferre voice was strained as he spoke, as if he was forcing himself to be calm. 

"But you love a middle class man?" Mr. Combeferre asked disapprovingly. 

"Yes."

"And what are you?" Mr. Combeferre switched his attention to Courfeyrac. 

"Excuse me, sir?" Courfeyrac was confused, but he knew he didn't like the way the question was asked.

"Are you a faggot? Or are you a so-called bisexuality aswell?"

"Pansexual," managed Courfeyrac through clenched teeth. He was seething at the fact that Mr. Combeferre used the word "faggot" to describe a homosexual.

"And what may that be?" Mrs. Combeferre asked with an eerie smile on her face. Courfeyrac felt Combeferre grip his hand under the table.

"It's a broader form of bisexuality."

"So, in theory, " said Mrs. Combeferre, "you'd fuck a horse if it had a humans face?"

"That's ENOUGH!" shouted Combeferre across the table, abruptly standing up. His parents looked surprised, to day the very least. "C'mon, Courf. We're going."

Courfeyrac let himself be dragged out of the house, not saying anything to the parents. He was shaking. He was used to being treated like shit because of his sexuality, but not like this. He felt absolutely humiliated, shamed for the fact that he did felt attracted to any beautiful human.

They walked back to the apartment in silence, both too angry to say anything. 

"I'm so sorry," sighed Combeferre when they turnned into Enjolras's street. "If I'd known they'd treat you like that, I would've never accepted the invitation."

"I know," said Courfeyrac reassuringly. "I just feel terrible you had to live with that for eighteen years... sorry." 

Combeferre chuckled. 

"What?" asked Courfeyrac when Combeferre chuckles turned into a genuine laugh.

"Only you could be humiliated like that and feel bad for another." 

Courfeyrac blushed. "You sure? I think Grantaire perfected that art long before me."

"Yeah, but he's taken. Isn't he?" This was the Combeferre that Courfeyrac loved. He looked so dorky, grinning like an idiot with his glasses slightly askew. 

They reached the apartment building, and Courfeyrac opened the door. Before he made it all the way inside, however, he was pushed against railing of the stairs. 

Combeferre's lips were on his and hands were roaming his body. It took him a moment to figure out what was going on before Courfeyrac responded by kneading his hand into Combeferre's hair and placing one on his hip. 

His kisses were desperate and sloppy, but they calmed down as Courfeyrac took control. Combeferre had never really experienced kissing the way he had. Courfeyrac was aware that all of Combeferre's sexual mistakes or intercourses had happened when he was drunk, but that didn't matter now.

Combeferre's hands finally settled on Courfeyrac's sides, gently guiding him to the wall next to the stairs. Courfeyrac gasped as Combeferre moved to kiss and suck at his neck, tracing his collarbone and jaw.

Courfeyrac kicked apart Combeferre's feet apart and placed a thigh in between his. Combeferre placed his hands on the wall to steady himself, groaning in Courf's neck as he gently rubbed again his thigh. 

"Oi!" Courfeyrac abruptly stopped to look at whoever shouted at them. At the top of the first flight of stairs was Enjolras,  a smug grin painted on his face. "Everybody's waiting on you."

Courfeyrac blushed and walked after Enjolras, who made his way back up the stairs. Courfeyrac didn't have to look to know that Combeferre was probably blushing just as much as himself.

It might've been Courf's imagination, but he thought he heard Enjolras whisper "finally".

* * *

 

The entirety of Les Amis was in the aparent,  sprawled over couches and sitting on chairs. All of them had the same knowing look on their faces, which Courfeyrac hated. 

"Enjolras," said Marius, completely oblivious to the smugness around him, "I've always wondered what sexuality you are."

"Bit random, mate," scoffed Éponine. 

"I've always thought I was bi." Enjolras looked shy, looking at his feet and his cheeks rosy.

"No," laughed Courf. "Enj, thinking someone is beautiful isn't the same as being attracted to them. I've never seen you get a boner from any hot dude of girl. I think you're ace."

Enjolras didn't protest the points Courf was making, as it was common knowledge he knew Enjolras too well.

"But I'm attracted to Grantaire..."

"I think you may be a demisexual," said Jehan. When Enjolras frowned in confusion, he sighed. "It means you're only sexual attracted to someone you're close to. I think -"

Jehan was interrupted by a gasp from Éponine. 

"What?" asked Marius. 

She was staring in shock at her phone, and it took her a while to respond.

"My parents just texted me - there's been a prison break."

She didn't have to explain. The unspoken words were almost tangible as everybody rushed out of the apartment and into the streets.

 

"Grantaire"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, this chapter is a lot angstier than I thought but yay theres still Enjoltaire/Granjolras angst so its okay. luv u guys.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for some action ;)

Montparnasse whistled as he strutted down the halls of the prison. Not even fulfilling an order in this place could ruin his good mood today. He'd just returned from Cosette's chamber. The girl had taken quite a liking to him, which he obviously didn't return, but he benefitted greatly from it.

He turned the corner to some other section of the prison, quickly swiping his hand across the access pad. He didn't really see where he was going, so he stopped in tracks when he saw he'd landed himself in the rehabilitation halls.

Montparnasse suppressed a shiver as he continued his walk. The things done in rehabilitation didn't sit well with him, which was saying something seeing as he was the most successful serial killer in the country. He'd been told by Tholomyés himself that he had the highest kill count in the world, though he wasn't sure he believed that.

And despite seeing all of that death, often by his own hand, Montparnasse had to admit this place was the most cruel thing ever to happen to a human being.

There were no sessions being held now, Montparnasse thought. The halls were silent. 

He shook his head and flexed his shoulders before continuing ahead. His walk was no longer upbeat and Montparnasse no longer whistled.

He was about halfway down the hall when he heard a soft whimper coming from behind the steel door on his right. Montparnasse frowned. There wasn't supposed to be anyone in there.

He slid open the slot in the door and looked through the small peephole. He couldn't see most of the room, but he saw a small figure hunched over in the corner. It whimpered and whined, tempting Montparnasse to open the door.

He did.

The figure stirred when the door groaned loudly. It lifted its head, turning it to see Montparnasse

The mans right eye was bruised shut, and there were fresh cuts all over his naked body, next to healing scars. He looked horrific, much worse than Montparnasse had seen any other prisoner.

Montparnasse gasped as recognition swept over him. "Christ," he whispered. 

In front of him was a beaten down, a broken Grantaire. Montparnasse knew he was being kept here, and it was his plan with Musichetta to get him back, but he'd imagined Grantaire was already done with rehabilitation. 

Montparnasse frantically looked around and spotted the pile of clothes on the table pushed against the wall. He grabbed them and rushed to Grantaure, who flinched away from the sudden movement.

Montparnasse didn't have time to care, however, with his new goal set in mind. He was going to get Grantaire out of here.

"Put that on," he told Grantaire. He then took his comm from his pocket and changed it to Musichetta's frequency.

"'Chetta, we've got to do it now," he hissed into the comm. "I've found R, but I don't think he could manage to wait much longer. I'm getting-"

"Yeah, I've already disabled the cameras on halls 16 and 18 - I saw you coming going into his cell and I assumed it was him." Musichetta quickly turned off her comm, judging from the high pitched sound coming from Montparnasse's.

He pulled his handgun from his belt, checked the clip and threw it at Grantaire, who caught it with surprising ease. 

"You're gonna need that," said Montparnasse. Grantaire just nodded.

He beckoned for Grantaire to follow him, which he did. Montparnasse didn't worry about the cameras as he walked out into the hall, closing the door behind Grantaire.

"Can you run?" Again, Grantaire just nodded. Montparnasse shivered at the thought of what must've been done to get the loudest and most obnoxious guy he knew to such a silent state.

Montparnasse set into a silent jog, followed by an equally silent Grantaire. Montparnasse held up his hand when they reached the end of the corridor, as he knew there would be a guard on the other side by now. 

In one swift motion, he opened the door and threw his arm around the unsuspecting guard's neck, tensing his arm to cut off any air. The guard was well trained, but he was no match for an experienced killer like Montparnasse.

Within ten seconds the guard when limp, her hands dropping from her throats and her body no longer struggling. Not dead, but she would be out for some time. 

Montparnasse took her keycard and her handgun, throwing his own keycard beside her.

Holding the gun in front of him, he continued his jog, setting course for hallway eighteen. Before they could reach it, however, they were met with a wandering squad of guards, who raised their own guns as soon as they spotted Grantaire.

In two quick shots, Montparnasse dropped two guards. And then another one. He spotted the last guard too late, who had his gun trained on him. Before he could pull the trigger, a hole appeared on his forehead, and his head snapped back, followed by his body.

Montparnasse turned just in time to see Grantaire lowering his own gun, a steely look on his face.

"Come on, R."

He swiped the guard's keycard against the access pad as an alternative to using his hand, and stepped back as the door swung open. 

On the other side stood Musichetta, brown curls tied back and gun in her hands. 

"A squadron will be here soon," she said as she jogged along easily with them. And sure enough, as they reached the end of hallway eighteen, the door opposite them opened to reveal eight heavily armed guards.

Montparnasse pushed Grantaire through the door, narrowly avoiding the bullets himself. His ears rang as he saw Musichetta lying on the floor, eyes wide open and blood spilling from her chest in five different places.

He didn't have time to mourn his friend, as he shut the door and shot through the keypad. That would engage the locks and make it nearly impossible for the guards to get through in time. 

Hall eighteen led to the sewers under Paris, which made it the perfect escape route. The sewers were incredibly complex and nearly impossible to navigate, unless you knew what you were looking for.

And so they ran. They ran for nearly an hour, taking every turn they could, wading through dirty waters to hide their tracks.

After Montparnasse was sure they weren't being followed anymore, he led them up to the surface, to a little alley near a Les Amis apartment.

He called Mr. Thénardier, letting him know a prisoner had escaped. He knew Éponine would be notified, and that Grantaire would be found in no time. The apartment was the furthest from Enjolras's, which was intentional. It was crucial it wasn't Enjolras who found Grantaire. Montparnasse knew what happened in rehabilitation.

* * *

 

It was Jehan who found him. He was dropped at that alley, shivering under Montparnasse's coat, muttering nonsense under his breath.

Jehan had cried. He was hugged, slapped, and then hugged again. Then he was half-carried half-dragged by surprisingly strong arms to an apartment, where he was given water and a blanket and a bed. Then his head started to clear up.

"Please, Jehan," he whispered. "Please, he's going to kill me! Apollo's going to kill me!"

He didn't understand why Jehan started to sob then, but his mind was too muffled to think. The room went dark, and shadow took him in its arms again.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll get bettter, I promise.

_Stay where you are._

That was all Jehan had said over the phone, before he'd hung up. Combeferre received a phone call shortly after that, saying something terrible. Combeferre's face had gone white, and he'd practically forced Enjolras into the Musain. It wasn't like Combeferre never showed emotion, but he was one of the most stoic members of the group. To see him so unsettled troubled Enjolras greatly. 

They'd been looking for the escaped prisoner, which could possibly have been Grantaire, around the Musain. Enjolras had flung himself into the smallest of alleys, desperatly searching for some hint, some clue, that Grantaire was still alive. 

They were soon joined by Courfeyrac, who'd flung himself into Combeferre's arms, and then by Marius, Éponine and Feuilly and finally by Bossuet, and Bahorel with Gavroche and Rey. Never had Enjolras seen everyone look so anxious as they did now, but he knew fully how they felt. The hope was killing them. 

Enjolras sat in the center of the room, in his usual chair, and stared at his hands. Combeferre wasn't talking to him, instead choosing to whisper with Courfeyrac and Éponine. It was offensive, in any other case, but now Enjolras couldn't care less. He did, but he didn't want them to feel guilty. After all, they might've had a good reason. 

Joly was absent, but nobody seemed too worried about it, so Enjolras assumed they knew where he was. Why weren't they talking to him?

After fifteen minutes of silent agony, Jehan burst into the room. His eyes were red and puffy, but his gaze was strong and determined when it found Enjolras, who shot to his feet, knocking the chair over with a scatter. 

"Jehan, did you find him?" Enjolras demanded.

Jehan nodded. Enjolras made to surge to the stairs, intending to go to Grantaire without even knowing where he was. His life was all that mattered. Relief and grief and happiness and worries all swept through him at once, so hard he barely noticed Jehan had surged forward and had pushed him away from the stairs.

"What are you doing?! Let me see him!" shouted Enjolras.

"No," said Jehan. "You've got to stay here." His voice was shaky, but unwavering. 

"I've got to see him," said Enjolras as he attempted to get past Jehan again. This time he was held back by Combeferre.

"You can't!" Johan looked on the verge of tears as he begged Enjolras.

"I have to!" Enjolras struggled desperately against Combeferre, who was bigger than him. "You've got to let me! Please, I-" Dammit! Combeferre was much stronger than him, but Enjolras was far more desperate. If Combeferre didn't get out of the way soon...

"Dammit, Enj! You've got to STAY FUCKING HERE!" The room fell silent and Enjolras stopped struggling.

Never had anyone heard Jehan cuss, let alone raise his voice. There was a wild desperation in his eyes and Enjolras sagged against Combeferre.

"Please." Enjolras didn't beg, he told himself. He didn't beg for anyone but Grantaire.

"Enjolras, Joly is already with him, and Courfeyrac, Jehan and Éponine are going to be with him the whole time," Combeferre said in his ear. No! Enjolras should've been the one with him! 

Enjolras nodded, pushing himself off Combeferre and lifting his chin. Everyone was staring at him, and they needed him to be strong as they figured out the situation with their friend.

At that moment Jehan's phone rang. They waited as Jehan listened and said goodbye to whoever Enjolras assumed was Joly. 

"Combeferre, Joly is asking for a second medical opinion," said Jehan, unable to keep his voice from trembling.

"I'll stay, then," said Courfeyrac. Enjolras nodded to him gratefully. He needed one of his best friends with him here.

"We're all staying here tonight," said Enjolras. He needed to stay calm, and he knew how to keep himself steady. It might not have been so effective, seeing as everyone just saw him lose his shit, but he had to try anyway. He looked around the room, making eye contact with every scared member of Les Amis de l'ABC. "Keep us posted on the condition of Grantaire, and we'll plan our next move."

Combeferre opened his mouth as if to say something, but thought better of it. He nodded curtly and left with the others.

Enjolras turned to his friends and took a deep breath.

"Allright, let's figure out how we're going to kill this dictatorship."

* * *

 

Joly bit his nails anxiously as he waited for Combeferre to arrive. He knew Courfeyrac would stay behind with Enjolras, which was for the best. He'd kept the room dark, just because he didn't want Grantaire to have glaring lights over him. Reducing stress was a priority for Grantaire, and it went above all else. There was a small desk light where Joly worked and examined Grantaire, but the rest of the room was engulfed in shadow. 

Joly wanted to keep Grantaire's visitors at a minimum, only allowing people around to stand and watch over him, too. 

Eventually others would be allowed to visit, but Joly didn't know what the situation with Enjolras would give them. Enjolras was level-headed and composed - when it came to anyone but Grantaire. Grantaire had always been Enjolras's weakness, and Grantaire was weak. Joly was worried that Enjolras might do something irrational when informed of Grantaire's condition, but he couldn't worry about such a thing for the moment. 

When the doorbell finally rang, Joly was at the door immediately.

"Be quiet, he's sleeping!" he hissed to the people at the door. 

There were tears on Éponine's cheeks, Combeferre's face was drained of all blood. Joly assumed Jehan filled them in while they had gotten here.

They were quiet, however, with Jehan and Éponine collapsing on the couch as Joly took Combeferre aside. Joly felt the stress they were under, though certainly to a lesser degree. Jehan and Éponine were a few of the closest to Grantaire, seeing as they were both here, and probably too exhausted to move much more. 

"He thinks Enjolras is going to kill him?" asked Combeferre immediately. So, Jehan left nothing untold. 

Joly nodded.

"You examined Rey when she let you, right?" Joly asked, needing Combeferre for this part of the examination. Joly was good with medical deductions, like diseases or physical harm, but Combeferre was a master at any other deductions or conclusions, and this went far beyond Joly's expertise. 

Combeferre nodded, new worries set in his eyes.

"You figured out she was doing that for herself," said Joly. "I want you to make some deductions about Grantaire. I've taken some blood samples, but I haven't identified the drugs - yes, there are drugs in his system - They're in small amounts, but I'll get the results as fast as I can." Combeferre's brow pinched together as he rolled up the sleeves of his soaked-through shirt. 

Combeferre nodded to the bedroom door and Joly gestured for him to go ahead. When he opened the door, Joly could hear Combeferre gasp loudly.

Yes, he definitely had the same reaction when he first saw it. 

 

Two hours later and Montparnasse was in the apartment. Grantaire had been awake long enough to tell a shocked Éponine to fetch Montparnasse, which she did after consulting Combeferre. Grantaire's voice had been frighteningly weak and raspy, but Joly reassured the group that was normal, seeing the condition he was in. 

When he came in, she did not talk to him, instead choosing to glare a hole into his chest. She was angry, and rightfully so.

Montparnasse still thought of Musichetta, who gave her life for Grantaire. He loved Éponine, but Musichetta was one of his few friends. They were very much alike, so being around Éponine hurt much more than normal. 

"What happened to him?" demanded Jehan. Wasn't this kid the calm one?

"The prison program in the most ruthless thing in this world," began Montparnasse. He couldn't even begin to describe that place if he wanted to. Just thinking about it sent shivers down his spine, suppressed only to mask his own discomfort at being around so many people who likely want him dead. 

"What else is new," huffed Jehan. This kid really was sending off some murderous vibes. 

"The murders weren't me," said Montparnasse. "They were committed by the group members taken at the party." He'd figured early on that they would suspect him of this kind of thing, seeing as it did kind of fit his style, but he needed to make sure they all knew the truth. 

"What?!" Combeferre hissed. "You're lying!"

"The purpose of the party was to take someone from every group," said Montparnasse carefully and patiently. "They drug them with small doses of reality-altering drugs, and then they torture them, using the face of a member of the group. They train the prisoners to kill, and condition them to target their tort-" 

"I'm going to kill you!" said Éponine. She purged forward, but was held back by Jehan. "You did this to him! You brought him there!"

Montparnasse hid the pain her words inflicted on him. It was true, of course. If Montparnasse hadn't lured Grantaire in, like a good dog he was, that poor bastard might still have a chance at happiness. Still...

"I didn't know how bad it would be for him! Usually they stop after a month or 5!" It was a poor excuse, he knew, but defense was only natural for him. 

"Then why didn't they?" Combeferre was calm and collected, a stark opposite of Éponine. 

"The prisoners break after then. I don't think Grantaire ever -"

"He looks pretty broken to me," said Joly, disdain in his eyes. No, these guys didn't really know Grantaire. Grantaire was much stronger than all of them - Montparnasse knew that much from the start. 

"He was never let go to kill, was he? He never broke enough to kill 'Apollo' or whoever that is."

"Apollo is Enjolras." Combeferre stared at him, looking for a reaction, likely. 

"Shit," breathed Montparnasse as realisation hit him. "He never broke because they targeted Enjolras."

He ignored the confused faces of the people around his and ran a shaking hand through his hair. Oh, fuck. This wasn't supposed to happen. Grantaire was supposed to be weaker than this. Why would they use Enjolras of all people? He told them not to do it. Montparnasse breathed through his nose, trying to steady his racing heart. Of course he never broke. 

"Montparnasse?" That was Joly. "You helped him escape?"

Montparnasse nodded, not able to say what he wanted to say. This was all his fucking fault. 

"Could you..." Joly seemed to struggle with his words as well. "Do you know if Musi-" He cut off there, his voice cracking with emotion. Fuck, Joly. Joly! Joly must've been the one of the ones Musichetta loved so much. 

"Musichetta was shot," Montparnasse said, not able to look at Joly. He'd forgotten about their relationship. "She helped us escape, and without her we wouldn't have made it."

"Oh," was all Joly seemed to manage. He didn't cry, didn't break down. Just sagged in his seat. Montparnasse couldn't decide if it was worse or not. Combeferre stayed silent for a moment, then cleared his throat. 

"So they used a lookalike to torture R, so now he thinks Enjolras is going to kill him?" Combeferre seemed to be calculating the possibilities. 

"They make fake-Enjolras pretend to rescue him first, and then he was tortured."

"Christ."

"I think it's best if Enjolras didn't see him for some time."

"I agree," said Éponine. She seemed to have partially forgiven Montparnasse at least. No, she just cares about Grantaire enough to know what's best for him. 

"Joly and I need to work out a rehab -" began Combeferre.

"Better not use that word around me, mate." The voice came from the bedroom. Grantaire was leaning against the doorframe, a hand clutched over his bandages. He looked like shit, like any prisoner would, but a faint smile ghosting over his lips. 

"Get back into bed!" exclaimed Joly, jumping up, distress already etched into his face. 

Grantaire simply waved him off, choosing instead to limp to Jehan and Éponine.

He embraced them both, before collapsing onto the couch next to Montparnasse.

"I know it wasn't Enjolras who did this to me, but I can't even think of him," said Grantaire shakily. "I can't think of my home without thinking about feeling the knife. Being around you is hard." Grantaire, I am so sorry, was all Montparnasse could think. 

He leaned his head against Montparnasse's shoulder, possibly attempting to hide the fact that walking here from the bedroom left him tired. The adrenaline of the escape had gone, and Grantaire's systems were getting a chance to catch up.

"Please don't let him come here," he said, his voice suddenly raspy. "But let the others come. I need to see them, and it's the best way to get over this."

"Are you sure?" asked Éponine, a worried look on her face. "We could -"

"I'm sure, but tomorrow." Grantaire closed his eyes, effectively falling asleep against Montparnasse, who shifted enough to let his head fall in his lap.

Éponine, Jehan and Combeferre took it as a hint to leave, saying goodbye to Joly quietly.

* * *

 

 

The next few days passed slower than time, according to Grantaire. His friends let him be, and Grantaire didn't feel like painting.

Most hours were spent sleeping, which Grantaire initially felt guilty about. According to Joly, however, most of their friends had spent most of their time at each other's houses, all too afraid to be alone. 

Today would be the day all of his friends came to see him at once. They'd all been before, of course, but one by one. They didn't want to tire Grantaire out - which was ridiculous, because whatever could be tiring after months of torture.

After having a shower, aided by Courfeyrac, Grantaire felt fresher than he'd felt in days. 

He ate and took his medicine, all while throwing anxious looks at the door every five minutes and making Courfeyrac chuckle.

Grantaire practically fell out of his chair when the doorbell rang, but didn't get time to open the door. Combeferre had the keys to the apartment, and Grantaire knew it was probably Bossuet who rang it without knowing so. 

One by one his friends walked into the apartment, filling up the couches and raiding the fridge, and leaving Grantaire happier than ever.

But now that they were all here, Grantaire could see how much the past year had changed them. 

He'd noticed it in Courfeyrac first, of course. The dark circles under his eyes and that sad smile. No, it wasn't sad, but it didn't come as easily as it did before. 

Joly's eyes were permanently red these days, but he never cried in front of them. He mourned Musichetta, of course, even though he insisted he stopped loving her as soon as she left them at that party. Joly always had been a terrible liar. 

Combeferre held himself together nicely, but he moved differently. His kind smile sagged every time he thought Courfeyrac wasn't looking. Grantaire noticed the two of them, even though they were trying to be subtle. Courf was never good at that. Combeferre kept everyone strong, at his own expense. 

Éponine was happier, more relieved since Grantaire first saw her when he got back. She also seemed more relaxed around Marius, and Grantaire suspected she'd given up and moved on... to the best of her ability.

The rest of the group just looked so tired. Usually, when all of them were in a room together, it would be loud and lively. Now the room felt hushed and mournful. Grantaire suspected it had something to do with the absence of Apollo, but it went deeper than that.

"Where's Jehan?" asked Grantaire to Éponine once everyone had settled into a chair. 

"Stayed with Enjolras," she whispered back to him.

Right.

"Hey, everyone," said Grantaire awkwardly. "Not dead." There was laughter across the room, and some of the tension Grantaire had been unaware of before now seeped away. "I suppose you have some questions?"

"No, we don't," said Courfeyrac lightly. Grantaire chuckled. Enjolras would have questions, but he wasn't here.

"We're just glad you're alright, mate," Feuilly piped in. "Meetings weren't the same without your annoying interruptions." Ah, yes. Meetings. Grantaire had almost forgotten about those stupid things. Still, he missed them greatly. 

Grantaire smiled and nodded to Feuilly. He was grateful he was joking about this, keeping the air in the room light.

"Well, I try." Laughter again, more genuine this time. "But tell me, what has been going on in your ever so boring-without-me lives? And will somebody please tell me how Courfeyrac managed to get Combeferre? It's gross." Courfeyrac was partically all over Combeferre, always touching him in one way or another. He knew he wasn't much different around Enj, before all this.

Grantaire chuckled as Courfeyrac uncharacteristically blushed and looked to the floor. He'd known, of course, about his love for the tall nerd, but he'd never guessed his feelings were returned. Still, it was nice to see them at least a little happy. 

"Arranged marriage and homophobic parents," said Marius, smirking slightly. And when did Marius start acting so differently towards 'Ponine? 

Oh.


End file.
